dads and divorce

IMG_1241I am not angry.

I am not sad.

I’m not mad…

Or bitter.

My heart is tired.

That’s really it. My heart is just flat out exhausted. If you can try and imagine the poor thing for a minute…beating, and beating. Over and over, and over. Doing such a good job. Pumping all that blood around this kick-ass fucking body of mine…day after day, week after week. Giving and giving…and giving LOVE. Just so I can get what in return? Nada. Zilch. A big fat, fucking NOTHING. Well, that’s not entirely true…I got a lot of love. Plus a bunch of lies. My poor heart is just tired. And I can hardly blame it. It’s been through an awful lot over the last four years. And I think, it’s time for a break.

Hey, heart! It’s me, Jennifer….And I’m going to give you a break. 

images-5

I am not going to apologize.

I will not explain myself.

I won’t settle.

I won’t change my mind.

I won’t back down.

I am 43 years old, and I have been there…and done that. And I am not going to do it again. And I’m done feeling bad for wanting what I want. I’m done getting into lengthy discussions about the choices I’m making in my life, with my kids…and my vagina. There, I said it. I actually put my kids, in the same sentence with my vagina and I don’t feel bad about it. Why? Because I can. And I don’t give a fuck. They are MY kids, and it’s MY life. And it’s MY FUCKING VAGINA! And I am so totally done apologizing for all the choices I’ve been making.

I AM NOT SORRY THAT I WANT A REAL RELATIONSHIP, YOU DOUCHEBAGS!

I am not.

I’m not sorry that I want to have sex with ONE guy. I will not apologize because I want to fall in mad-love, and eat Lucky Charms at night with one person. And binge-watch Netflix together in our sweatpants. I want to go out with other couples. And take a guy to my school auction. I am ready to do real stuff! I won’t feel bad for wanting to make love. OMG. Did Blog Jen actually say MAKE LOVE? Yes I did. A woman can change her damn mind, you assholes! I’m allowed to change my fucking mind!! I want to scream. I want to yell…and cry. In fact, I did. I cried my fucking eyes out last night, yes I did. I met this guy. He’s so good. And funny. Aren’t they all? No. But this guy, he was. Is. Whatever. And he just got separated. RED FLAG. Don’t do it ladies, don’t do it. Stay far…far away from the ones that need to be taught. Taught how to date. Taught how to “get back out there”. Taught how to pull out without getting cum on the comforter. Ya. Ooops. Well, anywhoo. He was awesome. Is awesome. Whatever.

And now, he’s gone. Poof. Why? Because I want more. I wanted more. Past tense, present tense. Future tense. Who cares what tense!! A girl can change her mind! I want to MAKE LOVE, NOT FUCK! Omg. I said it. Blog Jen wants to make love, not fuck. But can you blame me? I did my time. I did my thang. I got separated. I did the whole, post-divorce Romp of Lust. I partied my little tushie off, and rolled in the hay so-to-speak. And now, 3 years later…I want to find the one dude that does it for me. The one fantasmo fella that will be man enough to go off Match, and stay off while he sees if I’m the one. I mean, like it’s so much to ask? Take a chance losers. Give a relationship a real shot. Give ME a real shot.

How can you even like the one you’re with, when you’re always looking who’s walking in the bar door? You get it, right? Perfect example: I was sitting at dinner with this guy, Mr.SuddendlySeperated, and we had just had sex for the first time.  And it was fantastic. Like, unreal-fantastic. Best connection I’ve had in like forever. We are good. So good. And we are ordering our meal, and he pulls out his phone. Pulls out. ha. Get it. Funny shit. So, he pulls out his phone, and starts telling me about this girl he’s talking to on Match. At the table, after we had just had sex for the first time. I can’t make this shit up. I really can’t. I am trying so hard not to not punch his fucking face in, and I can’t eat. I can’t really look him in the eyes.

But I can finish my drink…

Oh, and I can pay for dinner. Nice.

And I can muster up enough energy to get back on Match the next day.

And I can, and did dump his hot ass.

So, Mr. SuddenlySeperated is now suddenly single. And I am suddenly over it all. And I’m not sorry. And I’m not going to shed one more tear. I want what I want. And that my friends, is to be in love. I want one guy to want just me. And I want to be treated with fucking respect. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. No sorries. No apologies. No settling for anything less. I’m on my way to make me a tee shirt…

Blog Jen don’t fuck…she MAKES LOVE. Should I use bold print and maybe a little glitter? Yes! Glitter! I love glitter. ;)

xo j

 

 

Unknown-1

 

 

Brisket.

Apples.

Honey.

Manischewitz.

Fake-ass Bumpy Cake from Harris Teeter….

It was really the best Rosh Hashanah we have had in a long time.

For those of you who are new around here, Rosh Hashanah is a Jewish Holiday. Actually, a pretty important one…it’s our Jewish New Year! Happy New Year card-holding members! Ya, well…in Charlotte, there aren’t many of those, so it’s not easy finding a place to celebrate. Especially when you are divorced. Does someone ask Mark and the kids…after all it is his week. So, I should just fly back to Detroit? Or do the boys and I make our own dinner? Ok, that is never happening. What the fuck? Is nothing easy in this world? Not really. But here is the thing, it can be. And it was. Mark called me up, and he invited us. He was alone, too. So he made a brisket, of course. I bought a fruit salad…my speciality. And we spent Rosh Hashanah together. There. Easy peezy, rice and cheesy. And yes, I meant to say “bought”.

Trust me, all y’all. You can do it. Grab your balls, and get along with your exes. It just makes everything better. And simpler. And I didn’t even have to set the table, or cook. Or clean up. It was fun!  And the boy’s were happy. And I was happy. Everyone was happy. And smiling. I did bring a Harris Teeter Wave Cake, which was as close to a Sanders Bumpy Cake as I was ever gonna get. (see pic) I inhaled that fucking thing, and all was right in our world. We drank wine, and hung out. And I stole a couple of my things when Mark wasn’t looking. Whatever, that ladle was so mine. And I don’t think he will miss that six-pack of Diet Mountain Dew. Shit! And you all know damn well that the picture from Italy that’s hanging in the front hall should be in MY house. But I couldn’t sneak that out without him noticing. Next holiday, its mine.

So, I had this huge exam today, right? And the boys went to Temple with Mark, so they stayed at his house, instead of coming home with me. I had to study. They cleared the table, and I chatted a bit more. Stuffed my face with more food, mushed up my doggies…and looked around my house. It looked good. Kinda bachelor-like. Our stuff all split up between the places; Mark still has empty rooms. I noticed the pictures on the bookshelves were all of the boys, and him. None of me? I mean, I know…why would he have pictures of me? I only pushed the fucking children out of my vagina. My old house. Ugh. And it was fine, I guess. Just the first time I had a meal with all of us at the table…together. As a non-family, in the house that used to be ours. That is now his. You get it.

Our totally functional, untraditional…non-family.

Wow. And it’s working…

I took a deep breath in, and felt kinda proud. Me and Mark, and the boys. We had a better Holiday Dinner divorced than we ever did married. For 13 years, we fought every fucking holiday. I’m not kidding. It just was the norm. We fought about the dinners, and what the kids were going to wear. And whose house we were going to go to. And which Mom was cooking what meal. And what child would sit in what seat. And I used to scream bloody murder at Mark. For no reason! Just because I hated the Holidays! I hated everything about them, so it was all his fault. But not this year. Not this holiday. Not this time.

 

I said my goodbyes, thanked Mark for having me…and I tried to make it to the car without losing my shit. Mark totally knew I was about to. He walked me out, and even offered me the leftover Bumpy Cake. I got in my truck, and sat in the driveway watching them through the window. Our boys were happy; yelling at the game on TV.  As I backed out of the drive, I ran over the grass. Shit. I used to do that when I lived there, and blame the cleaning lady. He is totally going to know it was me. I am so dead, Mark hates when I run over his flipping grass. There goes my invite for Yom Kippur. ;)

xo j

 

 

Unknown

Dad.

Father.

Papa.

Padre.

Art.

My daddy. You get the point. I’m talking about the men whose sperm made us who we are. The Y-chromosome that got together with the X, to make a zygote. The penis to the vagina. The ying to our yang. The man who sat on his ass while our Moms did all the work…yes sirree, Bob! Who’s your Daddy? Yup, you know it! Its time for my Father’s Day Blog! And no, not all you dads out there sat on your asses, I’m just playing. Jeez. Can’t you take a joke? Some of you actually stepped up and helped raise the kiddos. And worked your asses off. Lots of daddies out there bust your balls bringing home the bacon, so your Baby Mommas can fry it up in the pan! I know my Dad did. Art, you are a ROCKSTAR! My Dad was home every night at 5:30 for dinner. And I remember sitting down, and talking…and sharing stories. We were a family. It was important to my Mom to have that time together. No cell phones, or texting. Back in the day, we actually had to talk to each other. Back in the day. haha. When things were easy. And simple. Jesus. I tried to do that in our house, but it’s just not that way anymore, right? I mean Mark was traveling all the time, and he had to work long hours. Shit. I was lucky if he was home by 7:00 some nights.

But he is a great dad. The best actually, and I always said that. No matter how much I wanted to punch his face in, I always said he was the BEST father. I could leave him for weeks, go on a trip to China, and he would be fully capable of taking care of our boys. Not all women could say that! But I could. Even when the boys were babies, he was awesome. Mark is a kick-ass dad. Not such a killer hubby, but shit…at least he could parent! Which is why we are still co-parenting today. It’s all about the kids. And in our situation, being a good Dad is what is important. And he’s got that in the bag. Although, he did forget to pack Jonah’s Claritin this week for sleepover sport’s camp. But, if that’s the worst thing that he does, I’m ok with it. I made him drive it up. Yes, I did. I freaked the fuck out, and made him haul his ass up to Davidson College…find my boy, and give it to him. Don’t judge me. I’m psycho.

So, today, on Father’s Day…my boys are where they belong. With their Dad. Which is a little weird for me. I know, I should be ok with it because where else should they be? But I am used to celebrating someone. Whether it’s my Dad, or Mark. Or Mark’s Dad…or my Grandpa (may his soul rest in peace) I usually have a Dad to celebrate. I know, it’s not about me. I’m not the important one today. But shouldn’t I be somewhere? I did buy Mark’s gift. It is still my job, at least until the boys can drive. Divorced people, listen to me! I think this is a “repeaty” but whatever.  It is still YOUR job to buy the gifts for the other parent! The kids can’t do this for themselves. They don’t have access to vehicles, and they don’t have money! Well, my kids used their own money. We went to Blackhawk Hardware, and got Mark a grill lighter. Oh, and one of those Tree Faces. Have you seen those stupid fucking things? It’s a face that goes on a tree, but looks like part of the tree? Dumb. But they picked it out all by themselves. So, ok! And they picked out cards, and I wrapped it all up.

I think I’m nice that way.

I really don’t think other exes are half as nice as me.

But whatever, its Father’s Day… and Mark is the father of my children. He is the sperm to my egg. The peanut butter to my jelly. The hip to my hop. And we will forever be bonded by our kids. I am going to make a Hallmark Card just for this occasion. I was looking for one at the store, ya know, like Happy Father’s Day, Ex Husband. Or, Happy Father’s Day, Baby Daddy. Why don’t they make those? Shit, I would be a fucking millionaire. I can’t make any money on this blog with no advertising…so, yes! I’m calling Hallmark. Oh, ya…and Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there. Keep up the good work, and love up your kiddos today! After all, THEY are the reason you are a DAD! ;)

xo j

 

And Art, if you’re reading this…I love you to the moon and back, thank you for supporting me every step of the way. ~ jenny